


The Cycles of the Moon

by maybeimtheone



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Angst?, Chapters are short, Existentialism, Illness, alternate universe of course, and suck, i’m thinking about picking this back up with a new plot twist ending dun dun dun, well slightly au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:39:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8751742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybeimtheone/pseuds/maybeimtheone
Summary: "A land serene; A crystal moon. [..]Lost and lonely. That's Underground."AKA, Jareth documents his illness within an emerald book.





	1. New Moon over my Labyrinth.

Every day.

That's the rate at which I stand infront of my mirror and wish my constant scowl wouldn't put such fine lines on my skin. But, what else can one do to strike fear into the hearts of their underlings? _Smile_? Yes, one might say that smiling while making a threat would come off as more maddening than your everyday scowl. But I'm not mad, no, my mental health is in the same state it's been in for decades. I don't need my subjects thinking my health is deteriorating, now do I? What good would that do. I'm not to be confused with my predecessor, nor his. I am not sickly. I haven't another of what Druid calls my 'fits' in a while. Nor am I about to be impeached or humiliated all because of something as mundane as my health. I _look_ healthy and I look presentable. That's all that matters. And I'm fine.

Hoggle says the city harvest is coming a bit early this year, everything seems to be going well. He also says that he's heard many good things from the civilians who grow their own goods. Vendors who sell goods have been raking in profit. The people are happy and I presume this is the reason for my heartbeat having calmed itself recently. Ever since the last attack it's been back to normal, which Druid says means I'm not at risk for another. But somehow no matter what I write of, we come back to this.

I am not sick. I am _fine_.


	2. Waxing Crescent of my Labyrinth.

I am not fine.

It's been one month since I last wrote in this emerald book of mine, and since then I've had two attacks. Two fits in one month. The first left me ridden to my bed chambers, unable to write. I probably couldn't have even lifted my quill, for my state was that of a mother in the throes of labor. Days went by, yet my healer Druid remained at my side through my wails of pain. The burning sensations running through my chest made it hard to even breathe. I ran a fever closer to the heat of a freshly forged sword than any number. I felt I could drown in my own perspiration. As soon as I got bored of absolutely suffering and tried to go back to my duties, that's when the second attack hit. I hardly have any memory of what these attacks are like, mind you. My hearing and vision are always the first to go, followed by the use of my limbs and thought. Druid has told me the attacks involve lots of shaking and spurts of non-sense. _Non-sense_ , such a word isn't it. Sense in on itself is as non-sensical as a word can get. Yet I am tired now and don't care for philosophy. Hoggle says that him and the other advisors have finally finished organizing recruits for the building team who're working on the fountain I designed for the capital. I know I'll have to attend the blessing ceremony. I've been shut in too long. I don't want people to start talking.


	3. Half Moon.

People have started talking.

It has been a month since our last encounter. I've been too preoccupied to write, too fearful of another attack. Never have I followed the orders of a healer so intently. Queen Eliza invited me to her wedding under a 3 day notice, that was right after my last entry. Every other season, this happens. She finds a new one she fancies, marries them, gets bored of them, finds herself a new victim. This time around it's a young peasant. No creature of nobility would be caught stiff entertaining the idea of marrying Her Highness at this point. This has gone on for what seems like ever, the first wedding of hers I'd ever been invited to was before I was even crowned, my mother was still alive.  
My mother was one of the most beloved Queens this quadrant has ever seen. Children are told stories and sung songs about her to this day. Queen Celanette, hair as white as snow, possessor of a laugh that could put even the finest vocalist to shame. She insisted people call her Cela, because she hated formality. Legends say she would roam shoeless through gardens at night, singing songs to children sick and poverished. She died of sudden illness when I was so young, the few memories I have of her involve sitting in her bed, her being too weak to get up. I feel as if though I've taken her place. Yet I am with no offspring ( _or spouse might I add_ ) to comfort me or to take my reign shall something happen to me. I suppose it is fortunate for the non-existent child though. None should have to witness such a happening.

 _Enough_.

I haven't got the time to sulk in my own self-pity. I've gotten enough pity from outsiders such as my healer, no one has to say a thing for me to see it. No one dares show a face that might set me off. So I ask myself, what have I done to provoke such dishonesty from those around me? _I can be cruel, that's a given._ Yet I've shown them mercy and answered their calls when needed. _My policies are in vain_ _and the entirety of my reign, utterly pretentious._  But I've not caused damage to anyone under my rule.

Yet as I write this self-defense I shiver in my condition. My eyes grow heavier by the second and my hands have gotten stiff. I struggle every coming of night to sink into steaming water and merely bathe myself, to keep my pride and not let this weakness overthrow me. It's not like I'm dying, or anything.

Tomorrow I plan on strolling through city to take a look at my fountain that's coming along. The silver star roses I asked to surround it are being transported here and shall arrive any day now, while the craftsmen are still preparing the ring shaped statue.

_I don't know if I'll ever see it completed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The silver star roses are indeed made up.


End file.
